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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27510814">daffodils (and your voice beside mine).</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhrs/pseuds/nwhrs'>nwhrs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>artificial flowers. [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>NCT (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Real World, Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten Being an Idiot, Floriography, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Phone Calls &amp; Telephones, Suh Youngho | Johnny Being an Idiot, Suh Youngho | Johnny-centric, a fanfiction of your not-so-ordinary boring phone calls, excessive usage of parentheses, i love johnny's grandma in this one, if not for johnny's vaguely homoromantic yearning lol, they actually have a Reason though it's also random, this could almost be platonic, with like. one second of very awkward angst sorry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 04:01:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>17,194</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27510814</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhrs/pseuds/nwhrs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"A form of love is making exceptions. Little things that you are willing to tolerate for this specific person - or for those special people - and cherish all the same. It's a little bit like coming to love the things you hate because you love something much, much bigger and much, much more important than this."</p><p> </p><p>(Or: Johnny tries to fend his elderly grandmother against scam callers, but one is <s>fortunately</s> rather persistent.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Suh Youngho | Johnny</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>artificial flowers. [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010577</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>daffodils (and your voice beside mine).</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>... This kind of started lowkey as a 'Ten voice appreciation' fic, but then I added, like, four other story parts and -screeching bird noises- welcome to this mess.<br/>Inspired by <a href="https://nwhrs.tumblr.com/post/630405272470470656">this tumblr post</a> that I couldn't quite forget (the whole first dialogue of Johnten is based on that) and I wanted to write of / about ever since, so here we go !! It's not <i>really</i> enemies-to-lovers, but ... alas.</p><p>I acually wrote this <i>before</i> the ChenJi fic, but this flower gremlin took me longer than a month to edit ... I went through it so often I don't even know anymore ...<br/>Please ignore all impossibilities of this and that flower blooming at the same time or even blooming at the same place. I didn't check and my mind's too tired &amp; done with this ajsjhbHSHBDHB</p><p>Much thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamonsun/">Rose</a> (again) for beta-ing this little flower gremlin - really, you saved us all from whatever overly wordy pithole this was before, and also helped me adjust my RP writing style to fit!! uwu</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Picture this: a lavish painting of a field of flowers - something that has been drawn over and over, time and time again, in each century dozens of times, in all variations. From silly little pencil sketches in small notebooks to carefully planned paintings of acrylics, over dream-like imaginaries in watercolor, back to drawings in coal and ink alone - spanning across every form of digital realisation, of vastless possibility.</p><p> </p><p>Still, each painting preserves its own value, at least to its creator.</p><p> </p><p>In the sea of flowers, this particular painting shouldn't be a thing that stands out much. There isn't something particularly new or refreshing about the composition itself - moreso, the structure strikes as disorganised and random as ever, as overly chaotic in a strange way.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, this peculiar, continuous piece of art is decorating a wall in the middle of a street, which would be blank and bare of any emotions if not for the color it's coated with. If you come closer, you can take in all those little details, noting down how each flower has been carefully drawn out on its own. A single flower with a single meaning. The way it has accumulated over time, and time again, becomes visible - feelings painted down on a single wall in the middle of nowhere, simply because a regular canvas couldn't contain the emotions that evolve and shrink. The feelings that are unable to survive on a restricted, limited place without room to go left and right, up and down and out of its original canvas as it wishes - every one of them that comes along with a flower, no matter the size. Often in full bloom, but some wither away.</p><p> </p><p>It's unfinished, as much as it's untitled, and every day, it continues to grow, little by little.</p><p> </p><p>It's in the open for everyone to see - the affection that's seeping out from underneath the paint, the coal, the crayons. A colorful assembly of various forms, and yet it strikes that only one hand could have measured each blossom to its finalised shape.</p><p> </p><p>In a small corner of the unfinished-finished painting in the middle of a city in nowhere, it reads: "A form of love is making exceptions. Little things that you are willing to tolerate for this specific person - or for those special people - and cherish all the same. It's a little bit like coming to love the things you hate because you love something much, much bigger and much, much more important than this."</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Eventually, ultimately, inevitably, you begin to wonder about the painter behind this image.</em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The trips to his grandmother's shared living space are part of his routine that Johnny wouldn't want to miss. Even as it has been difficult at first to find time and motivation to drive out after work and go all the way to her, but once he looks at her kind smile, satisfaction and warmth fills him. When he's seated some inches across from her in a comfortable armchair, the fatigue that has been plaguing him eases away, a little by little. Mostly, he's simply talking leisurely about his day while she listens and occasionally throws bits of her own mind into the talk (to make it look like an actual conversation, so he doesn't feel as bad about this one-sided venting). Not all of his exhaustion will be gone by just this, but he does feel a lot better by the end of it when he drives back home.</p><p> </p><p>(In truth, he wonders who's the one benefiting from this).</p><p> </p><p>In fact, she's such a pleasant and passively engaging listener that often enough, he worries about her phone line that's buzzing with a new call from an unknown number every once in a while - and that's only what he's able to observe. Johnny keeps telling her not to take any call from a number she doesn't know, and she constantly reassures him she's not doing it. And <em>yet</em>, he finds her talking plenty with numbers he couldn't identify whenever he glances over the phone's latest calls. It's worrisome, to say the least - he doesn't want his beloved grandmother to fall into a scammer's trap, just because she's too good for this world.</p><p> </p><p>And while he <em>is</em> grateful, he does fuss over the fact how nothing has ever happened, even with the list of recent calls constantly being full of numbers he doesn't remember to have seen and that aren't saved, either.</p><p> </p><p>He continuously reminds her - that's the best thing he can do, right?</p><p> </p><p>Or, that's what he's thinking as he's on his way to her. It's a monday and he's surprisingly early off the work's hook. Now, he's walking up the street next to this specific wall of painted flowers, decorated delicately with intrinsic little details he couldn't quite fathom how it came to existence. The picture has only been half as big as now when he first started to visit his grandmother in this place, and it gradually grew in size.</p><p> </p><p>Each time he comes along this part of his familiar way, he skips up to the picture, and he takes a few minutes to figure out if there is a new flower to marvel over - and usually, there is.</p><p> </p><p>He isn't disappointed this time, either. Today, it's a confident white flower adorning a previously empty space on the grey concrete - a daffodil, a white bulbous perennial as he'll come to notice. Apart from its particular negative connotations due to its more common name, <em>narcissus</em>, it speaks boldly of new beginnings and expectations - it's one of the earliest bulbs to appear, welcoming a new spring every time as soon as possible. It's reminiscent of rebirth, and an early opening might indicate good luck furthermore.</p><p> </p><p>He smiles, even knowing only barely anything about the flower. The careful painting alone lifts his spirits, enough to keep him going for the last few metres ahead of him.</p><p> </p><p>It would certainly be a lie to say that this step on his way wouldn't already make the whole trip much sweeter. He's too fascinated by the dedication someone is willing to put into this, into such a thing as a painting that could easily be erased by just about any passenger.</p><p> </p><p>But nobody in this neighbourhood seems to dare, or to mind this artistic vandalism of public property.</p><p> </p><p>They are all too much in love with this artificial flower field.</p><p> </p><p>(And so is he.)</p><p> </p><p>Tearing his eyes away from the unreal flowers, he walks further - up alongside the carefully kept <em>real</em> flowers that line up the way to the door, a colorful assembly reminiscent of the wall he just passed. He rings the doorbell, and a familiar silhouette greets him.</p><p> </p><p>"Ah, Mr. Suh! We weren't expecting you so soon, your grandmother is still taking a walk outside in the gardens - should I call her back?" the housekeeper lets him in and explains.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny shakes his head. "I’m sure she's enjoying her time, I don't want to disturb - I can just wait in the living room, if that's alright? Or can I help out?" he replies to them who, in turn, shakes their head.</p><p> </p><p>They laugh shortly, gently, as they close the door behind him, a smile lacing their face. “There's not much to do, so please wait comfortably - I will let her know you're waiting once she's around here," they say before they vanish to return to whatever task at hand, leaving Johnny to his own devices. He is alone again, but he doesn't mind the temporary solitude as he continues his way with confident steps.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't take too long to enter the living room, but he's momentarily stunned by the bright sunlight that's flowing freely through large windows - he's never quite used to the discrepancy between the dimmed corridor and the generosity of light that is dancing around the shared living room. But there is comfort, to go into the light after a place where there is less of it.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes are automatically glancing over the rather old-fashioned central phone right next to where he takes a seat. Before he knows it, worried curiosity's taking over the young man, once more.</p><p> </p><p>Even though it's the shared living room, because of his grandmother's more-than-frequent stays here, most calls reaching this phone are acknowledged to be for her. Thus, most of the numbers indicating recent calls are quite likely calls she took or made, apart from the occasional general call a resident is making. And while Johnny doesn't <em>mean</em> to pry, there is a piece of sorrow in his heart as he reaches out for the phone to check the list of recent calls once again, praying the amount of unknown numbers becomes less or non-existent. Sadly, his wish doesn't get granted - he's greeted with a bunch of a bunch of numbers over numbers - numbers he isn't quite able to identify.</p><p> </p><p>He sighs.</p><p> </p><p>He wanted to tell her about his day, how he finished early and is excited about his next project, what it'll possibly mean and everything, but perhaps, this has to wait for after his nearly daily reminder now.</p><p> </p><p>He really wonders if she gets it, somehow.</p><p> </p><p>But before he can launch into yet another deep sigh and restore the phone to its prior untouched state, it starts ringing - traitorously - in his hands. Irritated, the young man looks at the object in his hand as if it has personally offended him. The number, as per usual for most of the time, is unfamiliar to him - though he does have a faint inkling to have seen it already … perhaps it's someone who is trying to scam his grandmother repeatedly? Just for how long has it been happening behind his back? Only thinking about it unnerves him and Johnny definitely cannot and will not lay it down to rest with a mere shrug and a rejected call. Determination is forming in his brain as he decides to take the leap and answers.</p><p> </p><p>Almost immediately, a chipper voice blurts into his ear. "Hello, how are you today?" the voice talks with a familiarity that's definitely itching Johnny.</p><p> </p><p>He pauses, inhales - exhales.</p><p> </p><p>"Great, thanks for asking," he replies with a skeleton of fake pleasantry covering his sour voice, deciding to play along for now.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny's met with a pause on the line, a noisy silence, and he couldn't quite suppress a smug grin crawling up on his face, making itself comfortable around the corners of his lips. <em>Got'cha</em>, he thinks to himself. <em>Didn't expect to hear my voice, did you?</em></p><p> </p><p>He is just about to say something when the caller returns to life.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm glad to hear!" the voice remarks in a similar, joyous and upbeat fashion compared to before, startling Johnny. But the latter isn't given much time to proceed as words continue to tumble into his ear. "I'm very sorry to say this, then, though, but I’m calling because your IP address has been compromised. I'll just need you to get in front of your computer, so we can get your account fixed up right away - will only take a moment, and it'll make your day even greater!"</p><p> </p><p><em>Lies</em>, Johnny's sure, and it almost makes him want to punch something (preferably his forehead) against something (preferably solid) in face of such a terrible lie and an even more terrible scam. That's what his grandmother deals with frequently? He frowns, but he tries to keep it out of his voice.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay! There's one thing I’m wondering though ..." he says as nonchalantly as possible, the grin returning to his face as he plays out his cards.</p><p> </p><p>The voice staggers a bit, and he notes it as his own victory. "Oh, what exactly?" the caller asks, sounding ever-so-innocently.</p><p> </p><p>"You really couldn't think of a better lie?" Johnny considers it's his turn to attack now, waiting only shortly for a reaction. (It will probably only come in silent, static phone buzzing, but he sort of hopes for the audibility of a hitched breath or a dumbfounded expression, really.) "Like, my <em>IP address has been compromised</em> - tell me, how, exactly, does an IP address become 'compromised', I wonder?" he continues on. In the background, he hears a presumably uncomfortable shifting on the other side of the line.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, he doesn't get a reply - not right away. After a heartbeat, he considers the possibility of being hung up on, checking the phone - but it's still running, the call is still going on. The numbers and the seconds are dropping by, one by one, adding to the count.</p><p> </p><p>"I was just wondering, is all," Johnny adds after a few more seconds to fill the silence. He hates how his voice suddenly becomes a bit smaller, now that he isn't receiving <em>any</em> response at all - he doesn't even know <em>what </em>response he's expecting.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, the phone clicks, cracks, indicating new input. "Why did you answer?" the voice asks now, void of chipper and chatter. Instead, there seems to be … something like sincere curiosity? Or, at least, that's what Johnny assumes.</p><p> </p><p>"-what?" he - most virtuously - blurts out the next-best thing that his brain has to offer in a peculiar situation like this.</p><p> </p><p>(He frankly hasn't planned this far.)</p><p> </p><p>"If you knew this wasn't a legitimate call, then why did you answer?" the voice asks, laced with something akin to amusement, switching easily between voice tones. It's unexpected - and particularly unfamiliar to Johnny. (And this skip of his heartbeat in unseen irritation - he considers it his own betrayal.)</p><p> </p><p>But Johnny isn't about to give in - not this time, not when his grandmother could potentially fall into a scam out of mere pity (he thinks the caller is doing a more-than-poor job at this whole thing, and if he thinks like that, then <em>she</em> is probably taking one of their fake washing machines as an act of selfless goodness). "Oh, I just thought I would have some fun at your expense" he replies eventually, as nonchalantly as he can muster up, unnecessarily making himself more spacious around the arm chair. One arm is draped around the back of it, his legs leisurely crossed in a gesture of 'having the upper hand'. Too sad the one he's talking to can't see the superiority he's certainly exuding in this very moment (or so he thinks), but it's a reassurance for himself, too, so he doesn't pity it for long.</p><p> </p><p>It's almost as if he can <em>hear</em> the raised eyebrow as a skeptical voice reaches him through the phone. "What expense? Talking is no expense to me," the caller replies and if Johnny pictures arms being crossed in defense, he might not be that wrong.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, you're currently not accomplishing your goal, so-" the young man is quick to retort, secure in his own victory.</p><p> </p><p>"-my goal?" the voice interrupts him before he can finish the reasoning of his flawless (arguable) victory (also arguable).</p><p> </p><p>"Your goal of scamming my elderly grandmother. You're not accomplishing that. I'd call that an expense," Johnny replies to the semi-question, wondering why he even has to spell it out to the <em>scammer</em> themself, but leaves it at startled wonder. He's rather enjoying the feeling of <em>actually</em> having the upper hand, and there is hope of having scared the caller enough that they don't call again.</p><p> </p><p>There is another pause. Johnny almost thinks the other <em>actually</em> hung up now, but the voice cuts before he can check for a second time.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, can I scam you?"</p><p> </p><p>Now, it's Johnny who is startled to a moment of speechlessness. His mouth opens, but no sound dares to escape before the owner of the body and the brain hasn't figured out his next actions and words, which definitely have to be planned carefully in face of such a precarious situation. Each minuscule exposure could lead to further damage and-</p><p> </p><p>"Did you - did you ask if you can scam me?" he, not-so-virtuously, manages to let out, merely repeating the words he has heard not even a minute ago. Utter disbelief is seeping through the phone's static.</p><p> </p><p>A hearty laughter escapes from the other line of the phone to his own ear. It makes him loosen his posture just a little bit, a literal tower of confidence falling apart at the sudden turn of events. On the other side, seriousness is trying to mask the clear amusement of the caller. "Yes - so, can I scam you?" the question comes again, and the meaning slowly sinks.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny doesn't know what to say, and he should probably try a more aggressive approach to <em>stop</em> this ridiculous scheme, so whoever this is doesn't actually call again, in order for his grandmother to be safe from this exasperating voice-</p><p> </p><p>"Sure, you can try-" escapes his mouth instead of the million other options.</p><p> </p><p>For which he is rewarded (... hold on, <em>rewarded</em>?! Definitely not!) with another laugh.</p><p> </p><p>(He doesn't want to think about getting used to this.)</p><p> </p><p>After just another bunch of static of shifting and shuffling, the voice reappears in his mind and ear again. "You need to get in front of your computer," the caller requests once more, apparently not willing to let go of their first attempt, even though it's still a very bad one and repetition won't make it much better.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny leans back as faced  with something he already knows, overcoming the state of dazzlement. Instead, he tries to reorganize his thoughts. Maybe, if he proves that he's un-scam-able, the caller will stop this? Yes, this sounds reasonable - like a solid plan, good enough for the five seconds he thought about it.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah, that's <em>still</em> a problem," he remarks with newfound vigor. "I'm eating tater tots right now and I really don't feel like getting up." It's now Johnny's turn to lie (he's, sadly, not eating anything, and specifically not tater tots).</p><p> </p><p>He's quite ready for an endless back-and-forth of arguments and pettiness, ready to insist that his made-up lie is actual reality and that there are plenty of reasons why neither he nor his grandmother are worth the trouble - but the reply is a simple "okay" not so long after he finished his sentence.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," the caller says. "I will call you tomorrow morning, then."</p><p> </p><p>Now Johnny <em>really</em> wants to punch a wall or something. <em>What the hell?</em> "I might not answer," he retorts, hoping not to sound as prickled as he feels like. "My grandmother definitely won't," he adds, just for good measure. He <em>definitely</em> has to warn her from this crude voice.</p><p> </p><p>The third laugh that rings in his ears does nothing good to any of them (there's just a weird notion in the back of his metaphorical heart, or something, nothing too remarkable and actually more annoying - of course - if he thinks about it). "You answered today," the caller points out calmly. Johnny hates how he can almost hear the <em>smirk</em> on this unknown's face, conveyed to him by a singular voice alongside silent buzzing.</p><p> </p><p>"... Touché?" is the only thing he manages to get out, his brain cells failing to process and compute the situation like they should. (What does he even pay them for?! Oh, right, he doesn't - they just live in his mind, rent-free, because he needs them somehow ... as little as they actually contribute to his overall sanity in this very moment.)</p><p> </p><p>"It's settled, I will call you tomorrow - have a good day!" the chipper voice comes back to life one last time before a familiar beeping resonates in Johnny's ear, signaling the end of the call. Johnny puts the phone down, staring at it with more accusation than before.</p><p> </p><p>… What was about 'getting the scam caller not to call again'? He definitely has to wait for his grandmother to tell her about this frivolous behaviour - just, a few more minutes …</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>… until …</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>He becomes restless. After a single minute of pointless, fruitless waiting, the young man decides to take matters in his own hands (again). Within moments, he's standing up, resolution set in his mind. He has to act <em>now</em>, which translates to findings and warning her as soon as possible. It doesn't take long before he goes through the large window doors in the living room, leading to the spacious garden attached to the house which is filled with even more flowers than he could ever memorise.</p><p> </p><p>He knows his grandmother should be here <em>somewhere</em>, taking a walk with her caretaker as she likes to do on a day like this. He knows she usually doesn't finish her walks this early, and he's usually fine with waiting. Normally, he'd use the time to catch up on his leisure reading or to have a chat with the other residents as they come and pass by. It's the first time he seeks out his grandmother's presence on his own.</p><p> </p><p>He dislikes the rush he's urging himself to, missing the variety of beauty and nature around him, his eyes set on finding walking and moving figures rather than immovable, preserved peacefulness. His gaze is lingering, withering, fleeting, still searching - before he finally catches sight of her.</p><p> </p><p>She's walking several feet away, a surprisingly energetic elder despite growing age, with eyes twinkling of past mischief and soft features exhaling warmth all over. She's amicably talking with her caretaker right now, and Johnny almost feels bad to interrupt, yet the sound is out before he can stop it.</p><p> </p><p>"Granny!" he's quick to shout, cursing his own loud voice in the same moment as he notes the startled flinch of the older, surprise evident on her face. But it only takes a few more strides until he's near them both. The caretaker remains surprised, though his grandmother's shock soon eases to a soft smile as she recognises her grandson.</p><p> </p><p>It's only then that Johnny notices he's quite out of breath. He hasn't noticed the effort it took to skim through such a large garden like he rushed himself to, in minimal time.</p><p> </p><p>"My dear, take a good breath and tell me, what's going on?" his grandmother's softness seeps right out of her kind eyes and to his exhausted figure, calming him down.</p><p> </p><p>"Uh - can I, can I walk with you for a bit?" the young man asks, sheepishly aware of his awkward actions, not wanting to know what has possessed him on the way. Now that he's actually here, he wonders why he rushed in first place. Time seems to slow down a little bit around her, after all.</p><p> </p><p>She only smiles gently, softly dismissing her caretaker for a bit more privacy, who merely nods kindly to both of them before leaving the elderly woman and her grandson alone.</p><p> </p><p>"Now, let's go on and you tell me what's burdening your soul, huh?" she asks with such a lovely voice that it makes him feel more at ease nearly immediately. The way she phrases her thoughts and her little requests make it hard not to just dismiss his sorrows in order not to burden her with any more of his petty problems. At least not with the one he has with some stranger (who hopefully doesn't mean their words as truthfully - but again, how much can he trust a scam caller, anyway?). Yet, worry overtakes him. As they set forth at a slow pace, he pauses for a few heartbeats before he finds his own voice again.</p><p> </p><p>"So …," the young man eventually starts, but before he can launch into a vent about the shamelessness of people nowadays, he swallows the thought of telling her. He decides he cannot let her deal with this when she's supposed to live her days in peace. In conclusion … he'll just have to deal with it on his own.</p><p> </p><p>How hard can it be?</p><p> </p><p>"I was just wondering if it's okay if I come by in the mornings instead of our usual time? I just started a new work project and it's actually better when I work on it from afternoon to evening since that's when most of the team's directly available. So, I was thinking about rescheduling my visits …?" he asks instead. (Well, it's only so much of a lie - his new work project really requires him to adjust his comfortable routine. He couldn't have fathomed it actually benefits him in <em>another </em>way, too.)</p><p> </p><p>His grandmother looks at him with surprise, but merely nods softly as they come closer to the lowly hanging wisterias around the house, welcoming each resident who takes a stroll through the garden and conveying a meaning of steadfast, lasting devotion and home.</p><p> </p><p>"Sure, I'd love that - if you come early enough, you could also join our collective breakfast!" she's quick to agree, and he nods eagerly at her suggestion, smiling again.</p><p> </p><p>Ah, he knew it all along, talking with his grandmother has always soothed his soul the most.</p><p> </p><p>And now, he has greater control over the phone, too, at least for the mornings. And this is - for now - enough to make sure he's taking the call and not his grandmother, in order to settle it with this strange person, once and for all.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders if he should script his speech.</p><p> </p><p>... He's definitely thinking too much about it.</p><p> </p><p>This was the first call he took, and its aftermath.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The next day comes sooner rather than later.</p><p> </p><p>After returning home from his visit, Johnny actually managed to free his head of this nuisance of a voice. It still crawls into his ears every once in a while in inopportune moments, but he can blend it out, mostly. Instead, he's able to focus on preparing the best he could for the next work day, packing up necessary things and storing it in the car, so he can head to his workplace right after visiting his grandmother and having breakfast.</p><p> </p><p>Morning rolls in. In the early hours of this tuesday, the clock ticks further and further, barely reaching past six o'clock. Johnny is already out of the confinement of his own apartment. He's leaving early, so he might be able to help out with preparations- after all, he doesn't want to be much of a burden when he joins their breakfast. He also uses this as a chance for a morning walk, taking his time to walk up to the house as he wanders the familiar streets with newfound silence.</p><p> </p><p>And with familiarity, color enters his vision. It's especially rare for him to see the wall of artificial flowers in rising daylight. Usually, it's leaning towards noon and afternoon when he comes by - when the early evenings are painting this little piece of the planet in a dim golden light, obscuring the original colors, as beautiful as it may be. But in this moment, he can distinguish the vivacious amount of colors more clearly, the ones being used for all those flowers, without any of them being mixed with a foreign orange hue. Carefully taking in each of the flowers, he's walking even slower than what would be considered slow motion - it's a snail race.</p><p> </p><p>He's so deeply sunken into his mind, into studying the paintings on his own that he doesn't quite notice the dark silhouette at the other end of the wall, who - in turn - is immersed into his own work of adding another flower to the mix. It's only when Johnny lets out a little laugh, overflowing with audibly expressed fondness as he discovers his favorite flower in this flower field at last.</p><p> </p><p>It's only then that he notices a startled movement in the corner of his sight, face navigating slowly, curiously towards the crouched-down silhouette several feet away - and they meet his eyes just in this moment.</p><p> </p><p>His thoughts come to an halt.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders how he could have missed someone else when they are looking at the same picture - and now, each other.</p><p> </p><p>… especially with a pair of eyes as clear as this stranger's, piercing right through him.</p><p> </p><p>There is something about them, he thinks, that takes a bit of his breath away, when surprise is widening his own. The stranger doesn't seem much younger than himself, yet there is something about the way he holds himself that makes Johnny think of someone much more youthful, energetic - filled to the brim with unparalleled vigor, a force that's just waiting to flow out to form something inherently <em>beautiful</em>, for the world to see.</p><p> </p><p>A face that's gently colored by the rising light of day, revealing the figure covered in worn-out clothes, littered with little stains of colorful paint - for everyone to see.</p><p> </p><p>A moment of art, manifested in many ways.</p><p> </p><p>There is a tense pause, heartbeat stopped, before the stranger leaps up in a single fluid movement that is reminiscent of a cat's - flawless, effortless. He's vanishing quickly, taking his tools with him, running away, and he leaves nothing but a half-smile - half-smirk, really - and the half-finished painting of a flower.</p><p> </p><p>It takes a while until Johnny finally registers that he's staring at air for a while now.</p><p> </p><p>In fact, he can't quite grasp the situation, only processing what has happened after the stranger has long left the place. Finally setting into motion, he looks at the mere silhouette of an orange flower, shaped like a lily, yet not quite - this is the only thing that's left behind. This, and the preserved memory of the few observations Johnny was able to make, carving themselves into his mind with every second that passes by, forevermore engraved in a corner of his thoughts.</p><p> </p><p>It's a strange thing, but he cannot unthink to have seen art, and art again.</p><p> </p><p>It's only when he hears how the street around him slowly comes to life that he snaps back into actual reality. Hastily, he is making his way up to the house to be met by everyone. Surrounded by noise and company, he doesn't have much time to think for himself - to think about this strange encounter. Instead, he helps out as much as possible and it surprises him (though not actually) that he enjoys his time in this very own little cosmos. As he indulges himself in this comfortable, lively life (one he'd never quite make out for himself to live), he almost forgets about both the unnerving voice and this ethereal being he just met for a brief moment.</p><p> </p><p>Though, forgetting isn't this easy.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The ring comes unexpectedly, just after he has bid his grandmother another farewell as she starts her early walk through the gardens, when it's almost time for him to go on his way and get to work, too.</p><p> </p><p>The phone comes to life with a vibrant rush of emotions, with snippets of memories and ultimately, with a voice that instantly begins to haunt him.</p><p> </p><p>He stares at it as it rings for the second, third time. It must be frustration speaking - it <em>must</em> be - when he takes the call without even sparing a second to check the number on display. It's weird confidence telling him it can be only <em>one</em> - that - person. "What?" he spats in the heat of the moment once it's successfully connected, overwhelmed by the sudden return of yesterday's memories.</p><p> </p><p>He receives a snicker in return. "Oh, aren't we talkative today? What a pleasant greeting!" the oh-so familiar voice mocks him with amusement, sarcasm dripping from somewhere along the line. Johnny rolls his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>"What do you want?" he asks without minding the other's words, almost ready to just hang up - a sudden stop has been, so far, the only plan he has managed to think of in the seven seconds he generously allowed himself to use for planning this.</p><p> </p><p>The voice merely hums as a reply, almost thoughtful. "Well, I want you to get in front of your computer now, it's getting kind of urgent," the caller remarks, falling back into the familiar pattern. Johnny doesn't know whether he likes it or not.</p><p> </p><p>… No, he certainly does not like the sound of it. He sighs. "Listen, I really don't have the time and <em>definitely</em> not any motivation to get in front of some computer and-" he's about to remark.</p><p> </p><p>"Yours - you need to get in front of <em>your</em>, not <em>some</em> computer," the voice interrupts pointedly, a faint nuance of laughter coloring it in a vibrant shade of something Johnny doesn't quite want to decipher.</p><p> </p><p>(It's only mockery, anyway.)</p><p> </p><p>"I- whatever," Johnny frowns, sighing. "I need to go to work, I really can't talk," he points out instead, and earns a tad bit of static silence before the caller comes back to life on the other side of the phone.</p><p> </p><p>"Okay," the voice says, finally. "I'll call again tomorrow, then, perhaps a bit earlier - have fun at work!"</p><p> </p><p>Then, the connection is closed.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny stares at the phone in his hand with dazzlement, mixed thoroughly with disbelief. Yet, strangely, somehow, the last few sentences leave an <em>almost</em> nice feeling behind, if it wasn't so inherently connected with the words of someone who is still out here trying to scam him (though very badly in attempting to do so).</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't want to look forward to it - he <em>really</em> doesn't. The entire situation is leaving a sour taste in his mouth, one that he quickly shakes away. He has more important matters at hand, and as long as it's not tomorrow, he hopes he can trust this unknown person enough to keep their word - not to call until the 'appointed time'.</p><p> </p><p>He huffs to himself.</p><p> </p><p>The sound of it is bluntly ridiculous.</p><p> </p><p>And that was the second call he took.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Another day rolls just around the corner, and he doesn't see the mysterious stranger again. But, as he walks by the wall on wednesday, he notices that the half-finished flower has a definite shape now, painted to its own kind of perfection. He smiles softly as he sees it.</p><p> </p><p>It's an orange-colored lily, indicating fun as the flower itself is confidently presented with such a vibrant color, almost mockingly so. To him, it's a brilliant hue that lightens his day. He remembers a Korean folk tale that involves lasting friendship and the coming of the tiger lily, yet … he can't quite shake the feeling of remembering a shade of hatred as well, unrelated to the tale. After all, the ferocity of its color is a stark contrast to everything else, just like hatred tends to stand out among the many emotions of humanity and sentience.</p><p> </p><p>Shaking his head about the ambiguity, he continues his walk.</p><p> </p><p>This day's early hours pass by like the previous one. Johnny still needs to get accustomed to this new rhythm of his life, but it's nod <em>bad</em> per se - breakfast together is less strenuous than he thought. And, to be honest, seeing the variety of morning people and night owls all scattered across the same table, it gives his own soul a small place of belonging. He laughs alongside of those who manage to keep a smile despite the remnants of sleep, and he makes sure the child next to him doesn't dive nose-first into her bowl of cereal and milk, earning a thankful glance from her mother just one seat further.</p><p> </p><p>Now, especially with this recent development, many begin to wonder why he wouldn't just join the multi-generational house when he's practically living for about half of the day here, anyway. But there is a comfort in solitude that Johnny cannot bring himself to want to miss. It's not about not wishing to be with people, especially when they're steadily  growing to his heart - yet for so long, he's been living on his own, according to his own necessities, that he can't quite imagine a life where he has to accommodate to someone else outside of work.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, slowly, he comes to think … maybe, he <em>could</em> get used to this. He finds himself opening up to the people around him, laughing along, but also being allowed to remain silent when he doesn't feel like he has anything to share. It's … nice, to say the least.</p><p> </p><p>… If not for the singular event that's setting his nerves on fire, electrocuting them. It makes him glance carefully over to the clock, anticipating each passing second with a maddening taste.</p><p> </p><p>And finally - <em>finally?</em> -, it's somewhat in the middle of breakfast when a ringing adds to the background noise, coming from the living room. It's reaching all over to the dining hall, and Johnny nearly immediately stands up, earning confused glances. "Uh, I - think I forgot something in the living room, I'll go check - please finish without me, and thanks very much for the food," he explains his odd behaviour, as composed as possible. He even manages to bow politely before he bolts for the door.</p><p> </p><p>His fast-paced steps contradict his composure, revealing <em>something else</em> as he's already out and about. The ringing has stopped mid-ways, but he still continues and doesn't pause to return, entering the room to be met with silence. He almost allows himself to exhale out of relief. Maybe this is the end? A single missed call? That's all it takes?</p><p> </p><p>But before Johnny can relish in this silence, a faint ringing starts once more. It catches his breath right in his throat, and before even the first ring finishes, he takes the call.</p><p> </p><p>This time, however, he isn't the first to speak. Instead, he's remaining calm - almost pettily so - as no words are uttered from his side.</p><p> </p><p>The silent treatment only works for so long, though, because the voice is as chipper and upbeat as ever the moment the caller speaks up, a mere second into the call. "Oh my, this was fast - and I almost thought you'd left me ringing!" the voice remarks, amused - and it's almost as if there is a light sound of relief lacing it. (It's irritating, he thinks, those unfiltered emotions of this stranger, bluntly on display through sound alone.) "Do you have some time to get in front of your computer, now, Sir?"</p><p> </p><p>The apparently unbothered tone manages to unsettle Johnny even more. Not exactly sure whether he's mocked or not (probably the former - has to be), he takes a seat, taking shelter in the familiar embrace of the armchair. He sighs soundlessly. At least this time around, he's more prepared and less in a hurry, so he can take his time to-</p><p> </p><p>-<em>wait</em>, why is that even a good point?</p><p> </p><p>He makes a full stop on his thoughts, dismissing the odd direction. "Well, I just ate and I'm relaxing before work, so I don't actually feel the urge to," he replies instead, as nonchalantly as possible.</p><p> </p><p>A hum is decorating the line, and he doesn't want to admit the slight melodic hue it has. (He certainly won't admit the little comfort it seemingly gives, even as it's disturbingly distorted by the continuous static of the phone.) There is something surprisingly clear about the voice that isn't overshadowed by poor phone quality (and maybe, he starts to wonder).</p><p> </p><p>"This is such a misfortune because it's <em>really</em> important that you do this right now, in this instance," the voice pleads, but there is not so much of a force behind. "You're going to use it sooner or later, anyway, aren't you?"</p><p> </p><p>The young man snorts. "What makes you think I do?" he asks cockily, waiting for a reply (and he hates the little expectation of <em>something</em> bubbling up in his chest).</p><p> </p><p>He doesn't mention the fact that he doesn't even have his computer in immediate reach, but that's just his to know.</p><p> </p><p>"Barely someone goes by their days without opening their computer at least <em>once</em> in our times," the caller snorts with a little laugh. "I don't think you're an exception to this. So, speed things up and get in front of it, please?" the voice replies, testing out another approach. It only makes Johnny rolls his eyes, accompanied by a faint grin that's oddly stuck on his face in a way he couldn't explain, even if he wanted to.</p><p> </p><p>(And he doesn't <em>want</em> to explain, not really.)</p><p> </p><p>He sighs again. "Wow, you seem to know me so well," he says dryly as another huff is audible. "But, for all that's worth - I could actually be in front of my computer right now."</p><p> </p><p>The voice lets out another hearty laugh. It's a short one, yet overflowing with honey-colored joy. (Johnny finds a little difficult to process when he considers that he's the one evoking such a sound, as scarred as it sounds through the phone.)</p><p> </p><p>(It shouldn't feel like an accomplishment, but it <em>does</em>.)</p><p> </p><p>(… only a very little, tiny bit.)</p><p> </p><p>"You're not, I can hear it - in my long career, I learned to tell apart if someone is actually seated in front of their compter or not," the voice reveals with a hunch of mystery to their words - as if a secret of trade has been exposed, but Johnny is definitely not buying that.</p><p> </p><p>"You're bluffing," he huffs, the sound of his voice not as laced with disbelief and skepticism as he'd like to. In fact, it's moreso colored with a strange form of amusement.</p><p> </p><p>His heart seems to think the stranger's funny, in all wicked honesty.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, 'm not," the voice blurs the words around the edges, letting a careful pronunciation slip in honour of being less understandable. "I can tell you're sitting in a living room, probably spacing out while listening to my sweet voice and … oh, is that the smell of breakfast?" the stranger elaborates, as if to prove a point. Johnny feels in this instance that he should definitely hang up, but … he does not.</p><p> </p><p>Instead, he scrunches his nose in perpetual confusion. It sounds surprising exact at first, but once he thinks about it, it's a pretty generic description whatsoever. It could happen at <em>any</em> house at this hour, and … it probably does. "You're not smelling anything," he deadpans.</p><p> </p><p>A chuckle finds residence in his ear (and eventually a more permanent stay in his mind) - a strange sound that's soaking the very memory of this call. "Well, for your information, I <em>can</em> smell and it's indeed breakfast - I never said it's yours, though," the voice remarks cheekily and it makes him sigh in exasperation.</p><p> </p><p>"Sure, hun," Johnny replies, and it almost sounds casual - like a normal telephone call between friends or acquaintances, and not … whatever this is. It could pass as the same - if not for the persistence appearance of a particular string of specific words.</p><p> </p><p>"You still should better get in front of your computer, though," the caller reminds him, an amused hunch lacing the voice and softly telling him what to do. It sounds somewhat alluring in this very moment, <em>almost</em>, and if Johnny's breath hitched out of surprise, it's his secret to take to his own grave.</p><p> </p><p>Mindless chatter from the dining hall is his own background noise as he sighs. "I told you i'm not going to, I'm too comfortable to move," Johnny claims yet another time, dramatically.</p><p> </p><p>A pause. "You don't trust me, do you?" the voice suddenly whines, and it startles Johnny enough to loosen his grip on the phone for the tiniest of seconds, catching it just in the same moment. This caller is certainly … something else. He's going to get whiplashed from the variety of emotions that's audible even through the glass wire.</p><p> </p><p>"... Isn't that obvious? I mean, you're trying to scam me, aren't you?" Johnny replies with a huff, skeptical over the theatrically thrown question.</p><p> </p><p>That seems to ease the dramatic hunch out of the voice. "Hm, so … if you come to trust me, would you get in front of your computer?" the stranger asks, a humming accompanying the melody of those words, even as the words themself aren't as poetic as the voice makes them to be.</p><p> </p><p>(It's a bit unfair, he thinks.)</p><p> </p><p>Johnny sighs, but it's caught between exasperation and amusement. "You can try," he replies, akin to the words he gave during their first talk - the first call. It's a challenge, and he wonders if the caller's taking the bait.</p><p> </p><p>Well, he shouldn't have worried in first place.</p><p> </p><p>"Deal," the chipperness returns to the voice (and if the world is a bit brighter because of that, as if colored by the clarity of this specific voice - he certainly isn't the one to say it). "My name's Ten, by the way," the voice gives an eventual introduction.</p><p> </p><p>The young man huffs in disbelief. "Like the number? You seriously want me to believe this?" Though, to be fair, it can either be actually true, or it's just another lie on the list of the ones he collected so far.</p><p> </p><p>If he could hear eyes rolling, this would be the cue. "Yeah, like the number, if you may - it's really my name, though," the stranger-now-Ten remarks, a slight spur of hurt audible. "What's your name?" he inquires, accompanied by silent chewing noises (and Johnny wonders how he has failed to notice them before).</p><p> </p><p>He lets out a puff of useless breath. "As if i'm going to tell you," he doesn't give it away, earning a theatrical gasp.</p><p> </p><p>"<em>You're a mean one, mister</em>," Ten grumbles in a voice faintly reminiscent of a child's perpetual tantrum, sulkily.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny pauses. "-You did not just quote <em>The Grinch</em> on me?" he remarks with a raised eyebrow, lacing his voice with just about enough skepticism that Ten <em>can't</em> fail to notice it.</p><p> </p><p>He only gets a hum in return. "Who even knows, John?" Ten says calmly, his words coming to a halt by another shove of food.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny's breath stops for real - a knot of panic forming in his throat. Ten shouldn't know his name, shouldn't even know a <em>part</em> of it. After all, even if the other has checked out the house, there is no 'John' around, and Johnny himself isn't registered in this place whatsoever, how-</p><p> </p><p>"Or that's how they call strangers sometimes, not? John Doe?" the voice in his ear continues, unbothered, apparently not minding the momentary static silence.</p><p> </p><p>Relief flushes through Johnny's body. <em>So this is it …</em> No strange stalking session has revealed him, just the odd coincidence between his name and another.</p><p> </p><p>"So I'm John Doe to you now? How uncreative," he snorts, a glance on the clock revealing the progression of time. "Well, but I gotta go," he adds before Ten can utter any remark (though <em>something</em> in him would have liked to know what he got to say, listen to another word spoken in this peculiar voice).</p><p> </p><p>In this very moment, he's actively suppressing the urge to continue with a <em>talk to you later</em> because he shouldn't be wanting to hear this voice again, right? It's close to ridiculous, and he doesn't quite like the irrationality of it.</p><p> </p><p>(But something about the way this voice - Ten holds himself in a constant vibrato, never quite on a stand-still, cheerful and so full of emotions … It's breathtaking, it makes him wonder.)</p><p> </p><p>"Have a nice day, John," Ten says with a grin somewhere in his voice, and the call ends.</p><p> </p><p>This was the third call he took, and Johnny feels more and more like a fool.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>There are plenty of things that don't always sit well with Johnny, even though he tries not to mind it too much. While not someone to get worked up over every small thing that can be a bother, when something gets into his mind and just doesn't want to <em>leave</em>, when it continues to make its circles in his mind, he simply … <em>despises</em> this feeling - as hard as he tries to stop thinking about this. A vicious circle.</p><p> </p><p>The thing that annoys him the most is probably himself.</p><p> </p><p>This, and - currently - the fact that his mind seems to wander effortlessly to a specific structure of sound, of spoken words with a little bit of an accent. There's a different pacing of words, sometimes faster, sometimes slower, varying the minuscule pauses between each syllable in such a strange way that it makes Johnny involuntarily lean into the sound. It catches his attention, and somehow, he's careful not to let any little detail slip past him.</p><p> </p><p>(It unnerves him, to pay this much attention to something this unpredictable, but he comes to think that, maybe, it isn't as bad.)</p><p> </p><p>There are moments where this voice rises up towards higher altitudes, without any warning or sign beforehand - a sudden rise in volume, cracking through the line, multiplied by static phone noises that accompany this strange melody. It's a sound of exasperation, of mockery, of joy, a simple fountain of emotions - in such a clarity he cannot help but to wonder.</p><p> </p><p>Naturally, the moments last only for so long.</p><p> </p><p>(It's a bit tiresome, the ever-so-occurring changes, but slowly, he comes to find delight in discord, comfort in cacophony.)</p><p> </p><p>But above all, there is this unbothered persistence. It gains a sweeter taste with mere playfulness that seems to reach him even through the phone, even without any face to attach to the voice that's sometimes whispering sweet nothings into his ear while trying a new approach to get Johnny moving, but failing so far.</p><p> </p><p>Ten - as the voice has named himself - doesn't seem to be all too serious about his goals, and slowly, Johnny feels his own determination crumbling, though he isn't so sure about the direction.</p><p> </p><p>And before he knows it, it's thursday when Johnny stands in the street and in front of the wall of flowers. He stares at the familiarity of it, a thoughtful glance over the small and carefully painted blossoms. But instead of starting to walk alongside of it like usually, he notices the figure staring at him from the other end of the wall - this time, right away. The stranger's hands are covered in miniature speckles of paint, dried up, reminiscent of how the small new addition in form of a flower came to be, crafted in care and silence.</p><p> </p><p>This time, the stranger doesn't run away immediately. Instead, there is even a bit of a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. It makes him look challenging, as if he's daring Johnny to do a specific move - but before the latter could speak up or do <em>anything</em> at all, the stranger lifts a hand in silent farewell, a grin decorating the soft features before he's turning around without so much as regret.</p><p> </p><p>Before Johnny can realise it, the stranger wanders away once more, only leaving behind a silhouette that's painted in the same softly golden sunlight which enlightens the entire work of his creation.</p><p> </p><p>It doesn't dawn on Johnny that he has stopped to breathe until the lack of air hits him.</p><p> </p><p>Steadying his breathing, his nerves and his mind, he honestly wonders what strange encounter he just had, with someone as elusive as a whisper - <em>if</em> he can still believe in his sanity, thinking of this beautiful stranger as an actual person and not just a fidget of his imagination, based on the art that's next to him.</p><p> </p><p>(It would be a lie to say he never quite wondered how the artist could look - be like. Occasionally, he thinks of honey-colored starlight breaking through a night's dark pattern - he thinks of days painted in vibrant hues of blue and red, in all the world's colors. He thinks of contrasts melting into one single harmony, of a variety being united in one.)</p><p> </p><p>(He thinks of flowers that are raised in paint, of their beauty in a fragile yet strong way.)</p><p> </p><p>It feels like an eternity before Johnny finally starts to walk once more, and once he reaches the end, he smiles at the little new addition.</p><p> </p><p>This time, it's a tiny bunch of little kalanchoe shrub blossoms, whispering mutedly of happiness and the small memories that come together. Even as the blossoms only last for so long as a day, they promise lasting affection and protection.</p><p> </p><p>He takes in the small crimson-colored flower petals, even more questions filling his mind, about the painter and the painting. But since the wall isn't going to answer any of them, he's continuing his way soon after. He still has places to go to, places to be.</p><p> </p><p>Once he reaches the house, the voices are already audible from the outside - some muffled and masked with sleep, some as energetic as the bright sun, and he smiles. It doesn't take long until he's merging with the rest, as if he hasn't ever been apart. (And part of him wonders if that could be a possibility.)</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>The fourth call somewhen after breakfast has finished. Johnny is helping with the dishes as the ringing from the living room resonates over to them and he finds himself frozen in motion, surprised.</p><p> </p><p>"Mr. Suh, I can finish up, but can you-?" the housekeeper asks him before he can utter any excuse, the task evident. He hums a confirmation as he dries his hands, going to the living room with a quicker pace. The ringing continues, staying alive for the whole walk, and a little bit further. His grandmother has said to be in her room for some reading, not wishing to be disturbed, so it seemed natural since he's around that he'd ultimately be the one to ask to take calls - <em>the</em> call (he doesn't want to admit how relieved it makes him, but maybe, he can make an exception).</p><p> </p><p>It's the fourth day of this ridiculous scheme, and it's the first time he actually checks the number before he accepts the call, the string of characters having a striking familiarity now. (If he smiles, nobody is his witness.)</p><p> </p><p>"Hello?" his voice comes out tentatively.</p><p> </p><p>There is a huff on the other line, but not annoyed - more amused. "If that isn't our John Doe - now, how are we doing today? Ready to get in front of your computer?" Ten asks playfully, a hunch of serious anticipation coloring the entire phrase.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny sighs dramatically. "What makes you so confident that today would be any different?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.</p><p> </p><p>A little bit of silence - thoughtful thinking, he assumes - builds up to the reply he gets. "You're still taking my calls, you could've blocked my number," Ten remarks wistfully, poorly trying to cover up the faint amusement underneath, making the other hum in slight defeat.</p><p> </p><p>"... This is correct," Johnny replies. "But that doesn't mean the more the likelier. Repetition doesn't make the argument any better," he points out, steadfast.</p><p> </p><p>Ten lets out a little meaningless laugh, a gesture filled with nothing but its mere shell - just something to fill the void with a void, nothing substantial. (Johnny comes to think that he wouldn't mind hearing this sound some more times, a small upward curl of his lips evident of what the back of his mind allows himself to think of.) "Well …" Ten starts. "I'll accomplish my goal, just you see. Could be any day now," he hums, background noise amplifying the sound coming from the other side. It's a weak finish, but it doesn't quite sound like an entire defeat when he says it.</p><p> </p><p>"Today isn't the day," Johnny deadpans.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, simple hums fill the line. It's an oddly distorted sound, somewhere between high and low - between absent-minded nothingness and attentive thoughtfulness.</p><p> </p><p>Then, a static crack as Ten's voice echoes back and forth from wherever place. "Okay," he says another time, a melodic stretch of such a simple word, overexaggerated at the edges and formed to something that doesn't resemble the original in many ways (and if Johnny leans into it, it almost feels like he can hear a smile despite the clear disappointment the other must be facing right now). "What are you doing instead, though? You never seem to have the time to do something as simple as going in front of your computer," he inquires, mockery decorating his voice.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny leans back into his seat. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself first?" he counters the question with yet another question, hearing a stifled groan from the other side. But composure springs back to the stranger as if he hasn't ever been demotivated in first place (and sometimes Johnny wonders whether it is even <em>possible</em> to demotivate him).</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, so <em>now</em> you're interested in me?" Ten teases with a muffled laughter.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny rolls his eyes. "You're too persistent for your own good," he remarks, scoffing as his question seems to be avoided, left in the air like many before. (He doesn't want to think about what all those little things mean.)</p><p> </p><p>"Pff, for your information, I'm at home, trying to get a John Doe to go in front of his computer for some very important things, but sadly enough, this specific person doesn't trust me," Ten goes on about the very prominent situation at hand, causing Johnny to suppress a laughter by the sheer comedy of it.</p><p> </p><p>"Do you even give him a reason to trust you to do what you ask of him?" he asks. He tries to sound casual, but amusement seeps through his voice, one eyebrow raised in mocking skepticism.</p><p> </p><p>Once more, humming is audible from the other side before Ten launches into another string of words, forming a reply. "I told him my name, that's quite the privilege," he remarks, now actually earning a short laugh from Johnny.</p><p> </p><p>"And you're really sure about this?" he questions.</p><p> </p><p>"Absolutely," Ten replies sternly.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, if that's all you did, good luck with this, I guess," Johnny lets out with a huff, caught between exasperation and something else.</p><p> </p><p>A pause.</p><p> </p><p>"So, today is really not the day, huh?" Ten admits defeat (it doesn't quite sound like a loss, though). Johnny nods before realising the other (luckily) can't see him. (He wonders how Ten manages to make it sound like he's actually close-by - how he manages to make him forget about the little signs that indicate it's a phone call.)</p><p> </p><p>(He wonders how he manages to make him feel a little emptier on the inside once the reality of being alone in this room hits him.)</p><p> </p><p>"I told you it's not," Johnny voices out, eventually.</p><p> </p><p>"Then I guess that's it for today, you shall return to your relaxing duties - have a good day, Mr. John Doe," Ten says with a little sigh, but he sounds ever-so-pleased with himself. It startles Johnny enough not to notice the end of the call until a few moments pass by - even with this persistent beeping sound filling his ear.</p><p> </p><p>This was the fourth call he took, and he has even more questions than after the first call. They have long started to pile up, forming small hills and bigger mountains.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>For Johnny, friday is the day of generosity for multiple reasons. First, lunch at the company has the odd tendency to taste much better when faced with the approaching week-end. Second, people sometimes tend to let more things slip past their prying eyes in favour of finishing earlier, not wanting to deal with more than necessary.</p><p> </p><p>Third, he has to go to work later, which means now, he can spend more time with his grandmother. It makes him realise that over the past days, he hasn't spoken with her as much as he used to, in favour of cutting their talks short, so he can … talk with this peculiar stranger.</p><p> </p><p>He feels guilty as they are walking through the real flower fields in the gardens, for the first time in long allowing an awkward silence to build up and seep through the air. It's reminiscent of how all of this started in first place.</p><p> </p><p>In fact, she was the one who insisted on his daily visits, wanting to hear at least one familiar voice every day and not only through static phone buzzing. As Johnny's the only one in reaching distance up until now, the rest of the family (partly happily, partly reluctantly) dumped the burden on his shoulders. The beginnings have been quite awkward, to say the least, a task he hasn't seen himself fit for - while not particularly estranged from her, he hasn't been exactly close to her, either.</p><p> </p><p>But, she made it easy to open up and enjoy the time, with her patience and her kindness - the actual simplicity of her wish being to <em>listen</em>, and Johnny has to acknowledge she's a fantastic listener, subtly encouraging the other party to continue with their story instead of wanting to speak up on her own. (Her daughter - his mother - usually comments on how she has had her fair share of being loud, anyway, a hunch of amusement glimmering in her eyes. In times like these, she sighs of homesickness, even visible through the video call. He assures her he's talking enough to make up for her now-silence. She laughs and the sadness fades away a bit.)</p><p> </p><p>Another reason as to why she's an excellent listener is the following: She wouldn't be his grandmother if she'd  let this uncomfortable silence linger for too long, knowing when it's her time to fill the void. For her, it's not hard to pinpoint that something doesn't seem quite <em>right</em>.</p><p> </p><p>"So, what is troubling your heart?" she asks in her usual airy, soft voice that pries in such a hurtless way it doesn't feel like prying at all - even as she skips about fifteen steps in a regular conversation (or how society's unspoken protocol dictates them to go).</p><p> </p><p>Johnny thinks about an answer, humming as he doesn't speak right away (he wonders if he always did this, or if a certain someone started to mask his words, even when he isn't around to notice it).</p><p> </p><p>"I'm not sure …" he finally admits. "It's a bit weird, right now." He waits for her to ask another question, but she remains quiet as their steps slow down. They come closer to the garden's pond, leaving her she and the lotus flowers blooming proudly among the muddy water as his only witnesses.</p><p> </p><p>"There's …" he takes it as a cue to continue, starts, less than intelligible as he fights for words, carefully twisting and turning them on his tongue. But he doesn't find the right ones, or even the extent of what he wants to tell, of what he's comfortable to share and let out (and make it reality, inevitably).</p><p> </p><p>"May I tell you a tale?" Johnny finally decides to go for a half-truth, even when he'd love to tell her the entire truth - but right now, it's easier for him to mask it in pretty words than to be straight-forward with it.</p><p> </p><p>She only nods, and he continues - or, starts.</p><p> </p><p>"Once upon a time-" he begins (because there is familiarity in overused wordings). "-there is a man who has someone, something to protect and he keeps them close, unwilling to let harm come to the same." He pauses, gathers his thoughts, continues. "But one day, an unexpected voice enters this man's life and it seems to mock him, trying to open a weak spot, to let his treasure be unguarded. The man is determined not to do this, of course, he feels a strong urge to protect, but the voice is persistent and keeps nagging at the man, trying to break through the armour he has put on in order to defend himself and the things precious to him. The voice wants the man's trust, but never quite tells something about itself, or only things that don't sound very convincing to him. And yet, even as the words itself don't appear to be very truthful, there is something … something else."</p><p> </p><p>He pauses, taking a moment to inhale, exhale. It's unlike his other ventings, and unlike the free fall of words he's used to do - the blunt and open times he already shared with his grandmother up to this point. But she's willing to listen, all the same, and nods encouragingly.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes wander to the water, how it's tainted with all those little particles of mud, soil, dirt - mixed up, it appears in this brown state and Johnny can't help but to feel like his mind must pretty much look like this right now, too.</p><p> </p><p>Too many thoughts at once. He takes a breath.</p><p> </p><p>"… With each passing question, the man starts to wonder - whether it wouldn't be alright to trust the voice a bit - to let it happen, perhaps, a little bit," he continues at last. "He still doesn't want to endanger his treasure because he fears the consequences, but … the grip around the key loosens, perhaps. Curiosity overtakes him, and he wonders if … if there is more th the voice than he has thought at first." He pauses, face turning to her and away from the sorry point in the pond he's been looking at. "... What do you think? Should the man trust the voice?" he asks her, the actual question masked poorly behind the made-up scenario of a fairytale.</p><p> </p><p>Anticipation and a little anxiety mix themselves into the breaths he's taking. He's waiting as his grandmother hums, crouching down to softly stroke the petal of a lotus flower. A heavy drop falls into the body of water below it.</p><p> </p><p>"At first I thought you're talking about me, as your treasure," she notes with an amused smile tugging at her lips once she turns to face her grandson. "But, this isn't about me - not anymore, is it, Youngho-ah?" she asks him instead, the Korean name rolling off her tongue with the ease of familiarity. "It's about your heart, isn't it?"</p><p> </p><p>He feels trapped, caught and a little bit burnt as his face seems to mimic his feelings, heating up. He scratches the back of his head in defeat. "Uh" is the very wordy answer of his.</p><p> </p><p>Of course - of <em>course</em> she has seen through him (it doesn't seem so hard in this case, either), having spent quite a lengthy time collecting data in form of memories of her grandson, when she is so generous in giving and paying attention. She only chuckles softly, a hand slightly curled as she lifts it up to cover the corners of her mouth.</p><p> </p><p>"You're young, you're allowed to make mistakes, you know - but, be careful," she remarks, gently. Quietly leading Johnny's hand, she places it on top of the lotus flower, guiding his eyes (somewhere alongside of it, she guides his soul, too). "A flower cannot grow on its own. It needs soil to grow roots, it needs water and sunlight to flourish, but all of it in modesty. Too much of anything will spoil it rotten, every nutrition needs to be according to each single flower's specific needs," she explains - hums with her voice that always has a hunch of eternity (at least to him). "Take this lotus flower - it grows up from the mud, surpasses the difficulties of its surrounding and grows to a beautiful flower above all, enjoying day after a night. And yet … not every flower can do this, it's not everyone's path to follow."</p><p> </p><p>Truthfully for the first time, he's taking in the sight of the flower right in front of his eyes, speaking of purification and enlightenment - softly whispering of eloquence, promising, if one is only faithful to pursue one's road further, and further.</p><p> </p><p>"You, too, need to find a way for yourself," she concludes, looking fondly at him, a smile adorning her face marked by years and years again. "You probably ask yourself if this isn't strange, or if it's anything at all - it could be nothing, it's a possibility. Yet, the fact that you decided to tell me, in whatever form … it appears to me that you've been thinking about it on your own, too," she says and pauses. Watchful eyes are glancing over her grandson's face.</p><p> </p><p>"… I think you know the answer yourself," she chuckles, lightly squeezing his hands a last time before she gestures to the main building. "And don't think I didn't notice your frequent uses of my phone, Youngho-ah," his grandmother notes with an almost wicked grin (reminiscent of past days, as his mother would muse with slight terror in her voice). "And before you can argue - I can look after myself," she reassures him, already knowing what's on her grandson's mind.</p><p> </p><p>In some ways, he does care too much - or to little, depending on how one wants to see it.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny, stumbling over his mind in odd circles, is void of words sans a single "thank you". He's already headed sideways as he smiles at her, almost sheepishly, bowing slightly. Then, he turns around entirely and his steps are slowly gaining pace.</p><p> </p><p>It's a bit weird, he thinks.</p><p> </p><p>… Perhaps, weird isn't all so bad.</p><p> </p><p>He passes by the same flower fields as on his way up. Somehow, strangely, they gain a more vivid color as he walks alongside of them again, stopping here and there to admire the shapes and hues, a silent muse for artists and poets.</p><p> </p><p>He thinks of a voice that reminds him a little bit of a flower, and he smiles a little bit.</p><p> </p><p>He passes by the wisterias welcoming him once more, and Johnny feels a little drunk on a feeling he isn't quite sure about. It's stupid, somehow, but he feels a little bit lighter, lifted from a burden he didn't know he might have carried.</p><p> </p><p>(He continues to wonder, though the wonders take him in directions he hasn't seen before, though he remains quizzical as to whether it's a bad thing or not. For now, he allows himself to perhaps see beyond - whatever there may be - and … indulge just a tiny bit in this voice that has made himself a home in his mind.)</p><p> </p><p>Once he reaches the living room, he barely has time to sit down in his usual seat before the ominous ringing starts anew. But right now, it doesn't seem as annoying compared to the first time. Instead, he takes the call with more anticipation than before, steadying his breath as he waited for the first words to drop.</p><p> </p><p>"Hello," he says in the moment as-</p><p> </p><p>"Good morning on this wonderful friday!" Ten greets just in tune.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny laughs silently after Ten finished. "Yeah, good morning to you, too," he manages to say - allowing a bit of amusement to seep through, more honest than before.</p><p> </p><p>The line is silent for a moment, a lingering pause, before an insignificant click indicates new input.</p><p> </p><p>"You sound different today," Ten notes down sharply, but with no malice. It's curiosity, full of wonder before mischief kicks right back into his voice, dismissing the short triumph of genuinity. "Does that mean you're going to go in front of your computer today? It's friday, after all," he says with such a confident tone as if there is anything special about fridays.</p><p> </p><p>(There is, Johnny knows.)</p><p> </p><p>"I don't think so," he says, a half-lie - a lie that could continue if not for the thought that has been lingering in his mind. There is a heavy pause between his sentences. "Though …" he starts, but doesn't finish.</p><p> </p><p>If possible, it sounds like Ten is leaning into the call with all his might, his voice resonating strongly in Johnny's ear, making his mind tingle with newfound emotions. "<em>Buuut</em>? Don't leave me hanging like that, John Doe!" he whines as theatrically as possible through voice alone, and Johnny thinks it's quite a lot.</p><p> </p><p>(Usually, he'd rather be spooked by those people, but just maybe, he can make a little exception, this time.)</p><p> </p><p>"Though," he starts once more, quicker, yet thoughtfulness is still decorating the curve of his voice, "you could tell me what you'd want me to do once, if I were in front of my computer." There is a bit of mischief lingering in his voice, mixed with anticipation.</p><p> </p><p>All of this is odd in a strange way, and he cannot quite judge whether it's good or bad.</p><p> </p><p>Ten huffs into his ear and laughs, in a hollow yet amused manner. "Seriously? But … hm ..." he ponders, weighing the odds. "Alright, let's simulate the situation!" his voice sounds bright, clothed with the clarity of vibrating glass, yet with something deeper and much more hidden. It's not a sharp tone <em>per se</em> - it's more like waves gently brushing back and forth.</p><p> </p><p>"Alright," Johnny echoes. "Hypothetically, I'm in front of my computer now. What should I do?"</p><p> </p><p>"So …" Ten starts. "Have you started your computer yet?" his voice is covered in mock seriousness, and so is Johnny's, as neither of them can get entirely rid of the amusement underneath it.</p><p> </p><p>"Yes, I did - I'm also logged into my user, if that's what you're asking next," Johnny supplies helpfully, mockingly.</p><p> </p><p>"Such a splendid client!" Ten smirks, miraculously by only using his voice. It's odd how Johnny can imagine the slight rising of lips to an unabashed grin, and he thinks he can hear hands clapping from the other side (in accordance to his heartbeat).</p><p> </p><p>"Fine, then, I need you to open your browser," Ten's voice returns to his ear.</p><p> </p><p>Out of the blue, Johnny decides to imitate a computer mouse by making odd clicking noises with his tongue. It makes the other chuckle, composure crumbling in face of this ridiculous situation. They both leave it uncommented. "Done," he smiles to himself.</p><p> </p><p>"Great! Now, you need to open your search machine." A piece of seriousness returns, but it doesn't last long as the made-up clicking noises mix with even worse typing ones.</p><p> </p><p>(Johnny is very glad nobody is in hearing distance, but he's too intrigued by Ten's laugh to be actually, entirely embarrassed on his own.)</p><p> </p><p>"And what now? What should I look for?" he asks, allowing silence to fill briefly, void of Ten's (serene) voice.</p><p> </p><p>Thoughts seem to drip from somewhere else he cannot see.</p><p> </p><p>"Then," Ten clears his throat. "Search - <em>iridescent clouds</em>," he demands, and Johnny pauses.</p><p> </p><p>He's startled, to say the least.</p><p> </p><p>"Why that?" He scrunches his nose in confusion, allowing the phone static to take over his confused mind. He lets the facade drop as irritation takes over. "You wouldn't <em>seriously</em> want me to do this, do you?" he asks, just to be sure.</p><p> </p><p>Ten only hums this sweet, addictive sound. "I wonder," he merely replies, vaguely. "You could find out if you're actually in front of your computer."</p><p> </p><p>It's humiliating how Johnny can almost <em>hear</em> the more-than-pleased-with-himself grin that is near-certainly covering Ten's unbeknownst-to-him face.</p><p> </p><p>He sighs, but he doesn't have much chance to say anything.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, as for why … they're pretty, and I thought I'd be a nice person and let you start your day with gay clouds," he explains with such a nonchalance that Johnny almost chokes on thin air.</p><p> </p><p>Thankfully, he does not fall into a coughing fit (which he'd consider more embarrassing than whatever sounds of computers he has imitated just moments ago).</p><p> </p><p>"Wow, this is <em>so</em> considerate of you," he deadpans, skeptically raising an eyebrow for none to see. "Is this your trick for everyone, or am I special?" he almost can't believe what he just said, <em>but</em>, to some degree, he can believe just this. His brain seems to undergo some severe malfunctions right now, if sanity is all lost.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, you can guess if you want" Ten only laughs this airy, innocent laugh, even though Johnny isn't so sure about the second part. After all, this stranger seems to be quite a terrific actor, or at least a very dramatic person.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny is about to say something, but once again, he gets cut short, words stuck in his throat without so much as a chance to be voiced.</p><p> </p><p>"Now, but since it doesn't seem like today's <em>the</em> day, either, I'll leave you right with this - have a good day, Mr. John Doe. … Think of me - at least I'll know I'll probably think of your pretty voice," Ten remarks with a chuckle and ends his farewell with a hearty laugh that renders Johnny's mind even more speechless than before (which is a factual impossibility; clearly once void of speech, there shouldn't be anything to steal anymore - yet apparently, there is, and Ten just snatched away whatever it is).</p><p> </p><p>An ominous beeping fills his ear and the connection is shut down before Johnny notices it.</p><p> </p><p>This was the fifth call he took, and he has a faint notion that …</p><p> </p><p>…<em> wait, was he flirting?</em></p><p> </p><p>And, more importantly:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>… was I flirting back …?</em>
</p><p> </p><p>(Maybe he is searching up pictures of iridescent clouds later during his lunch break, but that is virtually nothing interesting to know, so he will definitely not tell anyone.)</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>Saturday proves to be a day necessary to catch up on some work. As the office is locked for the day, he has heaved all necessary things from there to his apartment and <em>in turn</em> to the shared living space of his grandmother. Which isn't so much of an uncommon occurrence, it just hasn't happened this early before - but now, he's able to enjoy breakfast with a vivid-slash-snoring community, and it lasts already for a week.</p><p> </p><p>If he were to be honest, it quite has a touch of a lost home (one he hasn't expected to remember; it was good, but he used to think of it as a relict of the past, not as his present).</p><p> </p><p>Things are continuing to be terribly out of place of his usual rigid routine, the one that has given him something to hold on to in this perpetually changing world. Yet, he comes to think it might not be as bad to accept something out of the ordinary every once in a while.</p><p> </p><p>… or maybe, he's just trying to convince himself that he's definitely not waiting for a specific ring to resonate in his ears as he's scrolling through documents on his laptop, occasionally taking notes and typing away.</p><p> </p><p>Without so much as a fail, the phone rings, just as Johnny's rearranging some stray files. He lets it a few times ring before he takes the call, glancing over the now-almost-familiar number that now-almost evokes a smile, if only he weren't so insistent on suppressing it.</p><p> </p><p>"Yes?" he says, pressed out of his lungs in a nearly comic manner - as if he opened his mouth not to speak, yet mid-ways decided it might not be as bad to let out a sound. He continues his work, clicking, typing. It's a faint, inaudible addition to the background static.</p><p> </p><p>Ten's airy chuckle reaches his ear and makes him stop in his work. For a moment, he considers closing his laptop, to give this peculiar stranger his full attention, but ultimately, he decides against it. Work, after all, still takes up a generous time and he has only so much to spare. It'll be fine - or something.</p><p> </p><p>"Well, if that isn't our infamous John Doe!" Ten cheerily greets. "Now, ready to get in front of your computer today? Surely you don't have many plans?" he drawls out each syllable with a carefree care, however he's managing to do just this - as if he's trying to be understood, therefore he pays attention to his pronunciation; and yet, at the same time, he's piqued with this feeling of being far too excited to actually care.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny sighs, defeated yet standing still. Technically, he <em>is</em> in front of his laptop, but … it's not as if he's about to share this detail of his life. (He remembers a snippet of a previous conversation and chuckles silently to himself, amused; if Ten notices, it's his victory.)</p><p> </p><p>"You see ..." he starts, eyes focused on what's in front of him, ears concentrated on what might be miles away (or less than that). "I …" The gaps don't fill themselves as he continues to navigate through sheets of text and letters.</p><p> </p><p>His eyes track sideways, and his ears are filled with nothing to absorb.</p><p> </p><p>"My, oh <em>my</em>," Ten interrupts his incoherent speech at last, amusement clearly audible through their shared line. "You're not very focused today, are you?" he hums in this ever-so-melodic way of his, and it feels as if he's swaying, lost in something Johnny can't quite decipher.</p><p> </p><p>Involuntarily, he notices this feeling again - of being trapped, caught and a little bit burnt, though his face doesn't heat up this time. Instead, it rather feels like he's playing with fire, only to learn the inevitable lesson - yet, he's drawn towards it, time and again.</p><p> </p><p>(It's a curious thing, this entire thing of emotions.)</p><p> </p><p>He remains speechless.</p><p> </p><p>If frowning had a sound, it's Ten's voice in this instance. "John, my good pal, are you even listening?" he accuses, voice pitching higher than before. It gains volume in face of the severe misdistribution of attention - clearly, he deserves more than broken sentences that only consist of single words, with interest being lost altogether.</p><p> </p><p>It's by then that Johnny snaps out of his drift of thought, shaking his head in confusion as to what he's been thinking about. "Uh?" is the sound of his mind, harmonised by a growl from the other side of the line. But before Ten can start an actual fight, staged or real, Johnny interrupts whatever could have been. "Sorry, there's-" he tries again. "-work" he finishes lamely. It isn't so far from truth, yet vague as could.</p><p> </p><p>It seems to be enough to soothe the waking lion.</p><p> </p><p>"Hm?" Ten makes a contemplative sound. "Well, then I guess you're busy? Should I call you some day else to persuade you into my doings?" he remarks, rather to himself than to Johnny. His voice is masked with this particular sense of mischief that Johnny can only think of as a devilish grin, open in broad daylight yet uncaught.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny is surprised by the almost-reluctance hiding in the corners of his voice as he speaks up, but he knows better than to talk his time away when there's a mountain piling up. "I think that'd be better, yeah," he agrees, without any sign of disagreement with the prospect of being called.</p><p> </p><p>(If Ten doesn't notice, Johnny definitely doesn't need to point it out.)</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, but I can't call you on sundays, tomorrow is a special day that I always spend with a special someone! So, maybe monday? If our dear John Doe's around to catch the call?" Ten hums with the ease of summer breezes, dropping a bomb he doesn't seem to aware of. The phone line loads itself with something as heavy as a ton of iron, or so it seems.</p><p> </p><p>Johnny doesn't know why it suddenly feels a bit harder to breathe (but for all he knows, he feels like he <em>does</em> know the answer, contrary to his internal workings - he just really doesn't want to grasp it). He just dismisses the heaviness in the little words.</p><p> </p><p>"Sure," he sounds more normal than he assumed as he replies. "See you around."</p><p> </p><p>(Alright, maybe he doesn't sound <em>as</em> normal; it's more robotic and void of any faint glimpse of amusement as he tries to process the hearings, but also not <em>actually</em> because the sheet in front of him is vaguely more interesting than whoever it is that makes Ten incapable of trying to - arguably fruitlessly - accomplish his goal when he's been trying to do that for almost a week now. It sort of unnerves him, this lacking piece of knowledge.)</p><p> </p><p>There is a wicked edge to Ten's voice, the regular suspicious hum, nothing changed (yet everything) and for once, it has a slight hurtful ring in Johnny's ears. "Then, talk to you on monday, John D-"</p><p> </p><p>"Johnny."</p><p> </p><p>Before he notices, his mouth is acting faster than his mind, and then, words start to drip from his lips, one after another. "My name's Johnny, actually," he tries to sound unbothered as he introduces himself (he gulps, still).</p><p> </p><p>Silence fills the line. He thinks he can make out a gasp on the other side before Ten's voice kicks right back in. "Really? I was <em>this</em> close to your name? Am I a genius?" he spills in this carefree manner of his, blurting out whatever is currently on his mind, and just for a little bit, it makes Johnny smile. Ten continues to ramble a few more meaningless words, repetitions of the same sentiment, and maybe this is just fine.</p><p> </p><p>"I'll hear you on monday - have a good day, Ten," Johnny decides to wrap up in a moment where Ten catches his breath. And this time, it's him who ends the call.</p><p> </p><p>A bittersweet feeling is lingering in his chest as he bounces back and forth between emotions, but ultimately settles on the premise of finishing up work. He got a way ahead, and … it'll be just fine.</p><p> </p><p>This was the sixth call he took, and it's the first time he's admitting that he looks forward to another to come - at final last, maybe. There is <em>something</em> about talking to this person that makes his days, his mornings a bit more enjoyable, a bit more curious, and it's adding to this newfound rhythm of his life.</p><p> </p><p>Change doesn't have to be all that bad, huh?</p><p> </p><p>(Though, a little sadness plants itself somewhere.)</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>-----</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>In silent waves, sunday comes. It comes in seconds, adding to the inevitable arrival of yet another morning. For Johnny, it's a rare - regular - day where he normally doesn't go out to visit his grandmother; moreso, it's a comfortable distance between both of them, for a bit of time-off, to make it easier on Johnny who's the one making the effort to drive over.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, he did ask yesterday if he could come, regardless,  - of course, she was more than happy to agree. He didn't state a time nor an actual reason, but he knows he doesn't need to.</p><p> </p><p>He cannot unthink that it's just another change in this routine of his, the one that is slowly falling apart. Strangely, he doesn't feel as lost as he thought he would - rather than fine debris, he finds something new underneath the old  that gives him shelter.</p><p> </p><p>Waking up early, unable to continue sleeping, he's doing meaningless tasks over the course of sunrise in order wake his brain on this blurry day. And when he finally looks outside, he's already greeted by a blue sky, soft clouds adorning the firmament with something sweet - shapes reminding him of strokes of paint brushes. He smiles in light of a world that seems to be okay enough. He tries not to fret over something that doesn't concern him the slightest.</p><p> </p><p>(Though, he cannot unthink the little exceptions he made for this particular stranger, whose voice grew on him more than he wants to admit. But, it's just a simplicity, a mere hunch of something that he shouldn't think much about, in first place - right?)</p><p> </p><p>Deciding to take a longer walk in the light of a somewhat late morning, Johnny is leisurely making his way through the streets he's used to drive through. Sunlight hits left and right, illuminating this part of the world with a gentle glow. Everything and everyone is already alive by the time he reaches the wall of flowers; children are jumping back and forth, parents are running after them - annoyed or frightened adolescents are trying to make their way through masses of people, some hanging out in groups which lessens the scare other people give, some are on their own, vanishing into the crowd. But all of them have in common that they are moving, determined to end up <em>somewhere</em> as fast as could - rarely, he sees someone like him, someone who actually stops and stares at this piece of art in the middle of nowhere.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps, they are already used to it.</p><p> </p><p>(He doesn't think he could ever be.)</p><p> </p><p>Even more than before, he takes his time to go over the artificial assembly of flowers, sometimes pulling out his phone to search the name - a meaning, anything. In his quiet research, he discovers the most recent addition and smiles.</p><p> </p><p>It's a blue-shimmering forget-me-not, and Johnny wonders just at whom this message might be directed at - if the painter has any intent to begin with, and doesn't only pick flowers arbitrarily (but each of them seems to be following a careful, unwritten pattern that Johnny, in his personal reverie, doesn't like to think of it as a random collection; it <em>feels</em> like too much for it to mean nothing at all).</p><p> </p><p>His fingers softly, barely touch the dried strokes of blue, the color speaking of memories and of eternal love, in its very own ways.</p><p> </p><p>He sighs, inaudibly, his smile vague, curiosity clear in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>Trying to free his head from a peculiar voice that's invading his mind once more (even though he won't listen to it, not today), his gaze is wandering around - until it stops, halting his mind and putting it on pause for now.</p><p> </p><p>It's the first time he notices the small block of text among the wordless beauty, chaotically written - as if in a haste, or in a streak of genius, he couldn't tell. Close together, word for word, it reads: "A form of love is making exceptions. Little things that you are willing to tolerate for this specific person - or for those special people - and cherish all the same. It's a little bit like coming to love the things you hate because you love something much, much bigger and much, much more important than this."</p><p> </p><p>And it makes Johnny silent, makes him think about it.</p><p> </p><p>Once more, he's sighing, his mind returning to the state just before his gaze has been caught. Now, he's catching himself as he wonders - wonders if <em>he</em> thinks about him, too - or perhaps, Ten shouldn't, if he's spending precious time with this 'special someone', right? After all, Johnny hasn't ever been quite a part of his life, has he?</p><p> </p><p>One more sigh escapes his lips as he rips his gaze off the text, entirely off the wall. He shouldn't linger too much, there is still a place where he wants to be. Walking up to the spacious house and ringing the bell, he's greeted by the housekeeper. They are informing him that his grandmother currently has a visitor, but she said her grandson could simply enter and that she's more than happy to welcome him, regardless.</p><p> </p><p>He's surprised to hear, she hasn't mentioned it yesterday, but he figures she couldn't live on another day without having <em>someone</em> to talk to who doesn't live here, too. Thus, it doesn't seem out of all possibilities for her to have someone else over on a sunday where he usually isn't around. For a moment, he thinks about going back, as to not disturb whatever conversation is going on, but considers it's more rude to come and not to say <em>hello</em> at least.</p><p> </p><p>Finalising his choice, he comes closer to the living room the more hurried faces he nods to, all on their way to make the best of their precious sunday. It isn't until he's only a few feet away from the slightly open door that he notices the muffled laughs coming from the living room - and amidst them, next to the familiar gentle one, there's an airy, hearty one.</p><p> </p><p>One that always reminds him of soft molten gold and the resonating clinking of glasses at the same time. It's this sound that's merging to something entirely different, always dripping of something inexplicably unique.</p><p> </p><p>And if that isn't indicator enough, the voice following the laugh speaks another tale.</p><p> </p><p>"-well, if you put it like this, I guess it doesn't look half as bad," the voice snickers as Johnny halts, just in front of the door.</p><p> </p><p>This familiar way to emphasise words, even as vowels often enough got obscured by the continuous background noises of a phone call.</p><p> </p><p>His breath stops, and realisation hits him.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>It's … Ten.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Something within himself says he should turn around and go away, recollect his shattered thoughts - reorganise his mind, order his findings; perhaps ask someone around the house first before walking into the dragon's lair, and yet …</p><p> </p><p>He opens the door wider and is met with a young man covered in liquid gold, sunlight caressing his skin to make it shimmer softly, squeezed into <em>his</em> usual seat with knees drawn towards his chest to hold a notebook in place on which he scribbles leisurely. Clothes that are slightly more clean than the ones he remembers, as if making an effort not to look as worn-down and messy, compared to the previous encounters.</p><p> </p><p>Now, there are several things one needs to point out about this very moment.</p><p> </p><p>First, Johnny recognises the voice. The sparkly, mischievous - lively, dramatic voice of someone who seems to be the carefully chaotic mixture of all of this. The one who never has quite an image attached to him, though Johnny sometimes believed he could picture the faces he made just right - it's easy to imagine, if his voice gives away so much.</p><p> </p><p>Second, Johnny recognises the figure, even though he only saw him twice - it's the mysterious stranger, the one he kept seeing next to the painting. The one who got away, a soundless image with no whisper attached.</p><p> </p><p>Third, both of it merges to a single person, two different boxes taking residence in a larger one, labelled with a singular name - <em>Ten</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Fourth, Johnny also notices the familiar fondness on the face of his grandmother, and it's not directed at him - just yet. It doesn't take long until pleasant surprise is spreading across her face when she notices him. It's then that she looks at her grandson with a gentle smile, and for her, it's a gesture of invitation.</p><p> </p><p>Ten's laugh subsides - second after second, it drops out of him until nothing is left. For a little moment, he seems startled as he sees Johnny in the doorframe, more curious than irritated. His eyes are following him with every heartbeat, like a cat observing his prey, with a faint smile eventually tugging at his lips.</p><p> </p><p>And yet, Johnny awkwardly remains where he stands, for he doesn't know where to <em>be</em>, now that his usual seat is taken. … And to be perfectly honest, he doesn't have much perception for anything but his seat and the person currently residing in it.</p><p> </p><p>(It's a bit weird, to see 'his' seat being occupied, by someone who isn't himself. He can't bring himself to mind it, though, not when the stranger - <em>Ten</em> carries himself the way he does.)</p><p> </p><p>"Youngho-ah!" his grandmother is the first to break the crawling silence as her grandson doesn't move an inch. She kindly waves him over, gesturing at another arm chair nearby. It's a silent request, and Johnny complies, too startled to work on his own. "You just arrive at the right time - I wanted you to finally meet-" she explains with joy lacing her soft voice, but Johnny interrupts her for what seems to be the first time in forever.</p><p> </p><p>"-Ten," he finishes her sentence instead, breathless. A sound that's stripped of every emotion he has in this very moment. Yet, his eyes seem to convey his feelings just fine as they are glancing over the other, the stranger - to Ten.</p><p> </p><p>There is surprise, there is wonder, and there is something else that he quite cannot name just now.</p><p> </p><p>(It's so fresh, like a budding flower that's yet to be revealed to the world.)</p><p> </p><p>Snapping out of the little trance, life seems to return to Ten as he caps his pen. His face settles on a vaguely mischievous smirk, and it's the first time Johnny doesn't just <em>hear</em> it, but actually <em>sees</em> it.</p><p> </p><p>It's … something else, quite so.</p><p> </p><p>"Johnny," Ten says his name, pure and raw on the tip of his tongue.</p><p> </p><p>He only nods, overtaken by wordlessness.</p><p> </p><p>The eldest in the room observes this interaction with amused interest, deciding to stand up. "It seems you two have more to tell each other than I initially thought - I should leave you alone and go on my walk instead," she exclaims with a hue of amusement. "But, Youngho-ah, you better not leave before I'm back," she reminds him, chuckling lightly. It sounds like an order, but the sound of a deniable request is gently wrapped around it.</p><p> </p><p>And, it isn't like Johnny has anything else in mind.</p><p> </p><p>"Don't worry, I'll stay - have a good walk," he wishes her with a genuine smile, concentrating on the single purpose of reassuring his grandmother, as much as his composure can hold. He watches how she leaves the room without a haste, probably already thinking about her caretaker and his whereabouts.</p><p> </p><p>But Johnny's composure crumbles fast without her presence. Instead, utter surprise takes over his face, whipped towards Ten with such a force that it evokes a laugh out of the latter, a snicker underlying the entire movement of moving a hand up to cover his opened mouth.</p><p> </p><p>(It's breathtaking, Johnny thinks, but he doesn't quite know why.)</p><p> </p><p>(Or maybe, he knows, but that's his to think.)</p><p> </p><p>Johnny remains speechless, and for a moment, they just exchange glances.</p><p> </p><p>"So …" Ten is the one to start after his laughter dies down again. He's looking at Johnny with newfound interest and an almost accusing edge to his voice. "You're the Youngho she's always talking about? You're ... Johnny?"</p><p> </p><p>"Yes," he lets out, a simple question to answer (or so he thinks). "My full Korean name is Suh Youngho, and my grandmother prefers to use it, but I normally go by Johnny," he explains, feeling the need to elaborate.</p><p> </p><p>The room gets filled with Ten's humming, strangely familiar - this time, it's without any background static. Just the pure, undistorted sound of this unknown melody.</p><p> </p><p>"My name is Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul, but I go by Ten," he introduces himself, noting with faint amusement the surprised look on Johnny's face. "You don't have to remember that, you know," he lets out with a chuckle. "Just Ten is fine."</p><p> </p><p>(Here  is something Johnny wants to say: <em>Well, I hope I have more than enough time to remember it one day, though</em>, but he doesn't.)</p><p> </p><p>"Okay, Ten … so, why are you here? Did you actually accomplish your goal?" he asks instead, and suspicion takes over his voice, over his expression and his body. Now that first surprises are over and settled, realisation dawns him that Ten has to be here for <em>something</em>, for a reason. It makes him go defensive.</p><p> </p><p>Ten seems to be irritated by his accusation, unable to connect the dots - until he does. And in that moment, his laugh roars up towards the beautiful sky and Johnny almost forgot what he wanted to know. "First of all, I'm not a scam caller, duh," Ten remarks with finality, chuckling.</p><p> </p><p>"But-" Johnny begs to differ, irritation clear on his face.</p><p> </p><p>"I never said I'd be one, you just <em>assumed</em> I must be," Ten is quick to explain him before anything else can leave his mouth. "But, I decided I could play along for a bit - it gives a splendid excuse to talk to you again, and that … was <em>kind of</em> my goal," he hums, revealing himself. Johnny marvels at the nonchalant bravery on display, even though he <em>thinks</em> he can spot a faint red hue on the other's face, obscured by Ten leaning more into the arm chair, notebook just in front of half of his face. "Just for you to know, I'm an artist, if I'm not pretending to be a scam caller," he adds for good measurement, lifting the capped pen as if it explains the world and everything.</p><p> </p><p>"But-" Johnny tries again. "Why do you call my grandmother?" he still sounds skeptical, but something loosens. He doesn't … quite feel as lost or furious about the lie - after all, a good part of him is to blame, too.</p><p> </p><p>And … there <em>is</em> something soothing about the way Ten hums, to be perfectly truthful.</p><p> </p><p>"... I like talking with her?" Ten replies. "I usually come by on sundays to talk with her and sketch, clears my mind when I'm having an artist's block, and I do call every once in a while during the week - how could I not? She's a lovely person!" He's eyeing the other with as much honesty as possible. "I couldn't harm her, even if I wanted to," he promises.</p><p> </p><p>Something inside those words resonate within Johnny and he relaxes, involuntarily leaning into the sound of Ten's oh-so alluring voice, this time without anything scarring the sound of it. It's a weird thing, almost, to hear it like this.</p><p> </p><p>It's an odd thing, this feeling of wanting to come even closer.</p><p> </p><p>Silence is crawling up, but none of them mind, welcoming the little nothingness with an open soul, basking for a while in the sounds of a quiet sunday noon. "She's the 'special someone' you talked about," Johnny concludes at last and he earns a nod in return, affirmingly, fondly. And then, it's overtaken by mischief.</p><p> </p><p>"Oh, who did you think it is?" Ten snickers. "Just so you know, I'm single … right now." And there is definitely something teasing about it as his chuckles increase the more time passes - the more Johnny's face heats up, stained with red as he stutters out sorry attempts of defenses. Ten is carelessly relishing in it, and it shows in the way a smirk covers his face, a mixture of gentleness and wickedness at the same time, opposites finding a comfortable space in-between the nooks and crannies of this eccentric person.</p><p> </p><p>"-You're the artist of the wall with those flowers, too," Johnny tries to deflect the topic, searching for any kind of comfortable ground he can find.</p><p> </p><p>"Hum, yes," Ten confirms, playing with the pen in his hand. "Do you like it?"</p><p> </p><p>There's almost a spur of anxiety, anticipation pouring out of Ten. Even as he tries not to look as interested, the corners of his eyes are fixated on the other man, waiting.</p><p> </p><p>"I love it," Johnny blurts out before his brain can produce a slightly less embarrassing answer, but it's nearly irrelevant once he's met with the rising smile on the other's face - void of mockery and mischief, instead being replaced by gratitude and genuinity. A gentle starlight in the middle of a moonlit night. It surprises him; Johnny doesn't think there is much about his words, but maybe, his eyes betray him all over again.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe, they color the person next to him in a brighter light, though he doesn't think he can put him on a higher podest than Ten puts himself on already, confidently striding over the world's surface (yet, it's not all there is to be - it couldn't be, couldn't explain the depth there is).</p><p> </p><p>His voice, the one Johnny got used to through the phone - it's now bare in front of him, like a soft whisper around a midnight in autumn, like a clear and refreshing breeze gracing an evening of summer, a bristling fire during a winter morning - like the energetic awakening of a flower in spring. It's in this particular way he's able to carry himself through his voice, in the way just about everything that there is to discover is being made sound, yet intrinsically intertwined with everything else at the same time. It's supporting his whole being with another depth to the picture.</p><p> </p><p>He remembers white flowers with a spot of yellow, and he thinks of daffodils as they whisper of renewal and of beginnings.</p><p> </p><p>"I hope you'll come to love other parts of me, too" Ten says with a soft hum, a silent grin, and something breaks, but Johnny thinks it might not be as bad.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>... you really made it this far? JSNDJBAHDB no seriously though, kudos and much thanks to you !! I hope you enjoyed at least a little bit of this long ride uwu<br/>... Actually, I'm already working on a,,, follow-up,,, but I need more planning &amp; all for this, so it might take a while. (It's currently at 18k, though ... why, me, why.)</p><p>Stay tuned, stay safe, and hope you have a good day !! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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